


Dynamic Tension

by Edwardina



Category: Glee
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Kink Meme, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glee kink meme fill.  As his main bro now, Blaine helps Sam work out, sitting on his back while he does push-ups.  One day Sam asks him to sit on his stomach while he does sit-ups, which he obviously didn't think through, and they both get aroused and feel guilty.  However, Sam can't resist asking Blaine to do it again the next day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dynamic Tension

**Author's Note:**

> Another [Glee kink meme prompt](http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/38839.html?thread=52656055#t52656055). Blam! Title, naturally, from "I Can Make You A Man," which I hear was cut from Rocky Horror Glee Show for being too arousing.
> 
> This was written pre-Sadie Hawkins, so events in Sadie Hawkins and Naked are kind of smushed up here, pardon me! :)

They were sitting at the lunch table with Joe, Sugar, Unique, and Marley when Sam asked, "Gonna work out with me today?"

"Uhm," said Blaine.

He'd been doing his best not to make a big deal out of what had happened yesterday, and he guessed Sam was, too, but he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it, actually.

It had been like any other day in the weight room, with Sam going through his stretches, squats and lunges with sloppy form but so much dedicated determination, and Blaine dancing around the punching bag with his gloves up, jabbing and concentrating on getting all his negative energies out. Sam was a great workout buddy; unlike Blaine, he radiated positive energy. He would make a great personal trainer. But for all Sam's focus, Blaine found him slightly distracting. He sweated a lot... he panted his way loudly through rounds of pull-ups... sometimes he free-balled and it was super-obvious... and he seemed to feel the need to lift his shirt at least once a session to check out the state of his abs in the mirror. So, yeah. Good buddy. Good body. Kind of distracting.

Blaine wasn't much into lifting, but Sam liked to, so Blaine became his spotter, dragged into Sam's fitness routine with his knuckles still taped up. That turned into holding Sam's ankles while Sam did sit-ups, then reluctantly sitting on Sam's back while he did push-ups.

"I feel like I'm going to break your spine," Blaine complained.

"What? A lightweight like you? I can handle it." Sam grunted at the blue floor mat, shoving both himself and Blaine up. "Whoa, yeah. Now I feel the burn."

It was totally undignified, but Sam seemed to think it really did something for his core, which he wanted Blaine to see, of course, like Blaine could even tell one tight perfect muscle from another or see his core underneath them.

"If you want to work on your core, you could just do yoga with Joe. Or take a pilates class," Blaine said.

"You wanna take a class?" Sam asked him.

"Uh, that's okay."

"Dude." Sam clapped him on the back, panting. "You're totally improving my workouts. I really gotta tighten things up if I want to do synchronized swimming again this year. I'm not letting Coach Roz see my pudge."

"You don't have an ounce of pudge," Blaine told him. But it was kind of interesting Sam had been on the Guppies last year, so whatever he could do to help, he supposed. He got used to awkwardly seating himself on Sam's back and smiling at the jocks who obviously thought this was some gay thing. If it didn't bother Sam, then it shouldn't bother him. As the weeks went by, it became a normal sight. Blaine started using the spare time to read a book or dink around on Facebook on his phone, and a couple of times, he and Sam had come into the room with their water bottles to find Jake perched on Ryder in a similar way, a constipated look on his face.

Then the Men of McKinley calendar happened, and Sam went into overdrive. Panicking, he'd confessed to Blaine that he'd spent the last couple of weeks of December eating the worst he'd ever eaten, since the world was ending and after Armageddon good pizza would be hard to find and Skittles more rare than even unicorns. He worked out before and after school, even though he looked absolutely fine.

"What I really need help with," Sam had said yesterday, "are my sit-ups. I don't think they're working anymore."

"They're not working? How can they not work?"

"I just don't feel 'em like I used to," said Sam, shaking his head. With his hands on his hips, he looked sincerely disappointed in himself.

"Maybe because you're in perfect shape already," Blaine told him. "I keep telling you, you're hallucinating your pudge. If you gained any pizza-and-Skittles weight, you burned it off again the first day back!"

"Here, c'mere," said Sam with a jerk of his head, and dropped himself to the mat. "I've already done my three hundred, but I gotta do more, man."

"Want me to spot?"

Sam nodded, then seemed to reconsider, watching Blaine ditch his gloves.

"Actually, could you sit on me?"

"Yeah, if you want," consented Blaine. "I'm just gonna grab a swig of water."

When he turned, refreshed, Sam was lying back with his hands behind his head, knees lolling open carelessly. A trace of sweat glistened on the hair in his pits. His wifebeater stretched over his chest, which was taking in deep breaths from his three hundred sit-ups, and Blaine really had to look away again and take another sip from his water bottle, because he kind of suspected Sam wasn't wearing anything under his black gym pants.

"Wanna roll over?" Blaine asked him wryly.

"No, I'm gonna do sit-ups. So can you get onto my chest or whatever?"

A chortle escaped Blaine. "That's not going to work."

Sam frowned. "Sure it will!"

"No, it won't."

"Don't be so negative!" Sam said. "Give it a shot."

"You're pretty much asking me to stick my ass in your face," Blaine informed him, watching Sam blink and try to work that out in his head.

"Gross. You don't have to sit that close to my face." Sam slapped a hand at his abs. "Sit, like, here."

"I don't think I can," Blaine told him, but stepped over to him anyway, because he could tell that Sam had some crazy mental picture of himself pulling this off with ease, and only a physical demonstration of its unlikelihood was going to convince him that, no, Blaine wasn't so small or light that Sam could do sit-ups with Blaine sitting on him. He wasn't a pet monkey or something. Committing, he straddled Sam just as he would have if Sam had been on his belly, waiting, and lowered himself gingerly onto Sam's chest. It immediately knocked the wind right out of Sam with an audible whoosh. Blaine couldn't help saying, "See?"

"Just scoot down a little," gasped Sam.

"This isn't going to happen," Blaine told him cheerfully, obeying nevertheless, till he could feel Sam's abs right under the round of his ass. Wow, this was way, way more awkward than sitting on Sam's back, which was weird and kind of a bumpy ride at first, but which had also become fairly impersonal after the first couple of times.

"There," said Sam in a breath that suggested he was still suffering from the weight Blaine had put on his ribs. "'Kay, hold tight."

Immediately, Blaine flailed, grasping for Sam's knees, but as Sam successfully curled himself up into a crunch, Blaine slipped low and into the sudden bucket seat of Sam's lap. He held on, even though he could tell this wasn't going to work at all, as Sam eased back and breathed, "One." After a beat, he arched up. "Two. Lean back, dude. I need more weight up here." 

"Well – I don't have anything to hold on to," Blaine said, flustered.

"Just relax, would you! I won't do three hundred! I'll only do thirty!"

He did as Sam said, effectively abandoning any dignity he could have possibly had left as he laid back on Sam's chest, legs having no choice but to hang open even wider than Sam's, his ass snug to Sam's junk. Well, it was official. He'd only been this insanely close to two other guys in his life: Kurt and Eli. And he had definitely never reverse-cowgirled with either of them.

"I so hope you appreciate this right now," Blaine grumbled, as Sam pushed himself up, taking Blaine with him, into a forceful, "Three!" It was clearly much harder for him with Blaine's weight, and Blaine slackened and relaxed even further, sort of hoping Sam wouldn't even be able to make it up for another if he let gravity and Sam have full control.

But Sam managed a fourth, and even said, "There you go. Keep still and cross your arms."

Sighing tensely, Blaine just gave up, feeling more and more like a rag doll except for the tuck of his arms across his chest, and Sam was hitting the early teens before Blaine's mind became strangely unfettered enough to start... enjoying the whole thing. Sam's labored puffs of breath were hot on his neck, the numbers he was ticking through coming out increasingly guttural and his sit-ups coming slower and slower from the energy expenditure and the fact that Blaine's weight impeded him gaining any momentum at all. It almost became lulling, relaxing, the thud of Sam's heart against his back and the way Blaine utterly refused to do any of the work and was therefore getting rocked on a bed of hot muscle.

"Fif-teen," Sam managed to puff in Blaine's ear, and halted, flat on his back, breathing hard. His hands grasped at Blaine's biceps, then flopped to his sides.

"Wussing out halfway through, eh?" mocked Blaine. "I thought you were gonna do thirty!"

Sam panted for such a long moment, chest rising against Blaine's back in deep heaves, that Blaine couldn't help but tick to attention, just in time to notice Sam's knees shifting uncomfortably between his, pinning together for a second, then falling open again. That was really when Blaine felt it, bumbling warmth up right up against his crack – even though his shorts and Sam's sweats, that's where Sam's dick had managed to slide, and he let out an alarmed breath, gut jumping into arousal so fast and easy that he knew the lull he'd fallen into had gotten him going, though he would've refused to acknowledge it to himself if he'd fully realized. His cock twitched and filled reflexively in his shorts, the sheer vulnerability of feeling Sam's response where he could getting him hard instantly. Now the fact that he could feel Sam's heartbeat thudding so hard between his shoulder blades seemed too intimate.

"I... don't know if I should," Sam faltered.

Blaine squeezed his eyes shut, truly chagrined – not that this was his fault. He'd known this was a terrible idea. He needed to do the classy thing and get up, ignore it completely and excuse himself, chipper and friendly, or maybe say something like, _Hey, Sam, it's not a big deal. It happens. If you don't care, I don't care. So let's call it a day, huh!_

But instead, he laid there with his knees wide open around Sam's, feeling Sam's cock twitch in his sweatpants right there against his ass, and, yeah, he was _definitely_ free-balling. Blaine had never felt anything quite like it – dirty and blatant, so sweaty, truly illicit and strange. He didn't want to move, and that in itself was a painful blow to his conscience.

"Okay," he heard himself say after a few uncomfortable beats. His body was moving for him, sitting him up, his hands desperately planting against the mat underneath them so he wouldn't rub too much against Sam's dick as he wriggled himself off Sam's body. Their legs tangled briefly, but Blaine tried to hop up as easily as he could.

Well, shorts had not been a good idea, either. He pulled at them vaguely and tried in vain to resituate, honestly not sure whether he should act like he wasn't as hard as Sam was or if he should just make a joke.

Sam struggled to sit up, bending in a stretch over his lap and crossing his legs. His face was red, which it always was in patches, but so were his neck and chest.

"All right, thanks," Sam said, beating Blaine to the awkward punch.

"Oh – yeah. Of course," said Blaine. There was a pause, and Sam didn't use it to say anything – just pressed his lips together seriously and blinked. "Well! I'm gonna... go... so."

"'Kay," said Sam. "Thanks."

The only thing left to do was flee. Casually. Like nothing weird had just happened; they'd just finished up, as always, and Sam had talked yet again about how you couldn't let your muscles just adjust to workouts and if it felt easy, then it wasn't as beneficial as a harder workout, and had he read about Chris Hemsworth in _Men's Health_?? Blaine had leaned and picked up his water bottle sheepishly. He popped its cap open to take a much more gigantic swig than he could really handle, gulping as he left Sam sitting and sighing on the mat.

He was an absolutely awful person, Blaine realized as he drove home without even changing from his sweaty gym clothes, and tried not to hit his head repeatedly on his steering wheel as punishment. He wasn't the good person Sam thought he was, and now Sam knew it, too. Could Blaine have been any more obvious? Could he have wanted what he felt any more? That stunned pause where he'd just laid on Sam, feeling him hard right up against his ass, seemed to stretch longer and longer in Blaine's imagination the more he replayed it.

And yeah, there he was in his car, replaying the whole thing over and over. It was Eli all over again. He was horrible, perverted. What was wrong with him? He'd always been such a champion of the fact that gay guys could have straight friends. The Warblers had been living proof that no romantic or sexual tension needed to exist between him and other guys just because he was gay. It was such a ridiculous idea! But he was a complete hypocrite, because he'd become a shark at the first hint of blood, gotten so hard over his best friend getting a hard-on. However awkward and incidental and meaningless it had been on Sam's part, on Blaine's, it had ignited actual lust, and he swore up and down and all over their Nationals trophy that he had never, ever thought of Sam even vaguely in that way before. God, he was so messed up and disgusting!

At home, he threw himself onto his bed and wondered what Kurt would think if he knew Blaine had so little self-control, steeping in shame and berating himself more and more passionately.

Worst of all, if his erection had begun to flag in the ensuing mortification of the whole event, the moment he was alone on his bed, it came back with a vengeance, pushing up his shorts insistently. It answered his own internal question: it could not have been more obvious, especially if he arched his knees, opened them up, and pushed his hips up to where they'd been on Sam's. It was massive, god, and he was so turned on. Did he want sex that bad? Bad enough to cheat, and bad enough to imagine Sam – his best friend – pushing that dick of his against Blaine's ass like he was trying to gain entrance even though their clothes?

What if –

 _What if_ Blaine had let him, had rolled his hips and let Sam hump him and rub against him right there in the weight room, while they pretended Sam was doing sit-ups and Blaine was just helping him out, when in reality –

And, oh god, he was the world's worst friend, but –

What if Sam loved Blaine on him like that. What if he asked Blaine to sit on him every day, and never wore underwear under his sweats again, and always just rubbed his bare dick between Blaine's cheeks and kind of fucked him through their clothes, and what if Blaine spread his legs and moaned as Sam's dick, frustratingly covered in cotton but so hot and so hard, slid all over the nylon covering his ass and up between his legs, poking under his balls and teasing his taint, and Sam's dick fucked itself against him there endlessly till Blaine creamed his gym shorts – ?

Just imagining it had Blaine coming, hand awkwardly clawed over his junk through his shorts, fingers seeking the crevice that was hidden by the layers of his briefs and shorts. His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked and cussed under his breath, fighting to keep reality from his brain as he emptied himself into his underwear, thinking only of how Sam would probably never come as easy as he would, but he was Blaine's best friend, so... he'd say something really Sam-ish, like... _Damn! You totally blew it big-time, bro. Knew you were into jocks!_

World's worst friend, Blaine told himself, and pretended to suffocate himself under his pillow as he twitched and his come soaked through his briefs and shorts.

It was a really long climb out of that pit. Blaine spent his evening acting like he was totally over it and really, really interested in the football game he and his dad were watching, but his mind was pulling a Kurt and sneaking out his own personal version of _Vogue_ , which was an unfortunate collection of thoughts about how the Patriots probably never fantasized about humping each other. It had taken his mind a long time to turn off that night, and a comforting bow tie the next morning to remind himself that hey, he still had it together. He was still Blaine Anderson, featured soloist and over-achiever and all-around helpful pal. It hadn't been _that_ weird, right. And he'd prove to Sam, too, that it hadn't been weird.

So Blaine had greeted him in the hallway with a casual hand on the back, offered a reminder about the student council meeting after school, been told as blankly as ever, "Oh, I'll be, like, ten minutes late. I told Brittany I'd help her hang a banner for the dance," and walked away with his head held high. It had been nothing, and he and Sam were good.

But the question there at the lunch table still threw him, because it was like Sam had inadvertently put his finger right on the contemptible hidden pulse of Blaine's psyche.

"I know we have that meeting, but after," said Sam around his plastic spoon, lips busy carefully pulling every hint of chocolate pudding from its curve.

"...Sure," said Blaine.

"You are going to be so ripped for the calendar," Sugar told Sam.

"Gotta be at my peak if we wanna get 'em sold," Sam said, cocking his brow.

Sugar nodded eagerly.

"I'm sure glad it's not us girls," Marley commented, fidgeting with her milk. "I don't think I could show that much skin, knowing that the people who buy that calendar are just going to objectify me."

"Sam has no problem with showing skin," Blaine said. "Or with being objectified."

"Unique has no problem with that, either. You enjoying that chocolate?" Unique asked provocatively.

"Ooh, flirtiiing," trilled Sugar, as Sam shot Unique a wide-eyed look with his spoon between his lips.

"Pride," said Joe, shaking his head, "thy name is Sam Evans."

"I know, it's a deadly sin," Sam admitted without shame, scraping his pudding cup.

"Right up there with lust," Joe said.

"Let's talk about Sadie Hawkins!" exclaimed Blaine brightly. "Who's performing, again?"

After their meeting, which also revolved heavily around the dance, Sam and Blaine walked to the locker room together, as per usual, their conversation not really strained, but not really focused either. They changed quietly, luckily not utterly alone: Jake and Ryder were lifting side-by-side, and having a deeply stupid singing-newbs conversation about whether or not _American Idol_ was dead that would've gotten them pummeled in the years before glee had become minorly acceptable. Blaine would have normally crashed it and said, yes, of course it was dead, and had been living an alternative lifestyle as a zombie for several years, and it was all about _The Voice_ now. But he wasn't himself. He'd brought a pair of track pants to wear instead of his usual shorts, and tried not to blush as red as his McKinley Athletics shirt pulling them out of his messenger bag to change into. He felt it shouted out that his shorts were currently wadded up in his hamper, stiff with dried come.

"You not boxing today?" Sam asked, when he saw that Blaine wasn't taping up his hands. Blaine shook his head, wrinkling his nose as if the idea didn't appeal to him. "You gonna lift?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Cool. I'll spot you on bench, if you want."

To Blaine's relief, after stretching and about ten minutes of reps and listening to Sam, Ryder, and Jake all bantering like usual, it started to feel more normal and low-key in there than he had been expecting it to feel. Wow, was he over-dramatic. No one cared about his pants.

As usual, Sam hopped from exercise to exercise, working on the machines he liked with single-mindedness then switching to pull-ups with his ankles crossed and his biceps flexing for all to see.

When he dropped onto his knees and sank into push-ups, counting silently instead of out loud and not even asking Blaine to come sit on his back and make it a challenge for him, Blaine had to actually shake his head. Seriously? He had blown yesterday way out of proportion. Sam was clearly fine, giving the both of them their space but not in an awkward way. Ryder and Jake wandered out without so much as a "see ya," not giving them any attention at all, so clearly nothing between them was obviously off.

Blaine touched his toes for a minute, then joined Sam on the mat, doing his own push-ups a few feet away. After only a few, they fell into the same rhythm, and Sam said, "Wanna do one-armed?"

"No, show-off," laughed Blaine. "You are not working out with Thor."

"You gotta work new muscles sometimes," Sam huffed. He collapsed right to the mat when he finished his set and rested there for a minute as Blaine worked away busily, thinking only of his ridiculous calendar get-up, really and honestly. But he ground to an awkward halt when Sam leaned up onto his elbows and said, "You don't seem mad at me. 'Cause of yesterday."

"Uh, that's because I'm not," Blaine said lightly, dipping his torso.

"That's good. I didn't want you to think bad about me."

"Oh... so, okay, we're talking about it," Blaine realized. Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a gust, nodding at Blaine in a way that suggested he'd rather not, so Blaine offered, "Hey, don't even worry about it."

"You're not, like, gonna not be my bro anymore?" Sam asked cautiously.

"No way! Being your bro is like, the best thing that's happened to me all year," he said, sounding way too cheerful, even to him. He popped up onto his knees and panted as he sat back on his calves.

"So you'll keep sitting on my back?" pressed Sam. "Because push-ups are too easy without you."

"Yes. If you really need me to sit on your back, I'm here for you. I wouldn't want your month in Men of McKinley to suck because of me."

Sam looked up at him and chuckled under his breath. "I'd do the same for you, if you could lift me."

"Thanks, total abject personification of pride."

They sat companionably for a minute. Blaine was pretty sure it was all going to be okay. Then:

"It was really helpful when you sat on my front," Sam said, managing to sound guileless enough.

"Yeah? That was... helpful to you?" Blaine asked, blinking.

Lifting a brow, Sam nodded, then said, "I could really feel it."

"Huh," Blaine let out, surprised. It kind of seemed like Sam was flirting with him, but he couldn't actually tell, and he did not want to be the world's worst friend, but after yesterday, it was really hard to imagine climbing onto Sam's lap, laying against him and feeling his muscles work and his knees sway and push Blaine's further and further open, and not get hard. Actually, he couldn't imagine that Sam wouldn't get hard, either, with Blaine's ass curved right against his junk, warm pressure and promise. Throwing caution to the wind, he said, "Yeah. I could feel it, too."

Biting down crookedly on a smug smile, Sam glanced down at the mat, then back up at Blaine.

"I bet I can do thirty today. You up for it?"

A wounded breath of a laugh got out of Blaine's lungs. "Uh... yeah. If you're up for it, I'm probably, definitely, totally up for it."


End file.
